


8

by stelleappese



Series: 30 drabbles [3]
Category: Papillon (2018)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-20 17:36:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16560242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stelleappese/pseuds/stelleappese
Summary: Papillon’s eyes are drawn to the shadows the little fire projects on the walls as they dance across Dega’s paintings. He feels numb and small and like he’s a step away from crumbling.Dega, on the other hand, looks like stillness would be the death of him.





	8

Papillon’s eyes are drawn to the shadows the little fire projects on the walls as they dance across Dega’s paintings. He feels numb and small and like he’s a step away from crumbling.  
Dega, on the other hand, looks like stillness would be the death of him.  
He’s been working on the fire for a while, he warmed up some water, dipped a cloth in it then squeezed it tight. He tugged Papillon’s shirt off without asking for permission, and Papillon let him do that without complaining. He’s still looking at the shadows and at the paintings, Papillon, when Dega starts gingerly dragging the lukewarm cloth against his skin.   
“I made a bed for you, too.” he says, his voice hoarse, rusty.  
The sound of sloshing water, then dripping, then the feeling of damp warmth against Papillon’s skin again.Dega painted the sea, in one corner of the room; the blue of water mixing with red.  
“It can get very cold, at night."  
Papillon has seen that same picture in his head a thousand times, during the past five years. Blood in the water. Blood on Dega’s hands.   
It took him a while to figure out why he felt guilty about what happened to Celier, but he’s had plenty of time to think about it: it’s not because he ignored Dega’s warnings and brought him along -there was no alternative to that- or because he was too weak to stop Dega in time. It’s because Dega did it for him. It wasn’t self-preservation. It was the blind, desperate rage of someone protecting what’s his, and Papillon knows because he felt that same rage over and over again since he met Dega. It was Papillon, in a way, that made Dega into a murderer.  
Dega rinses the cloth again, but when he makes to raise his arm, Papillon grabs his wrist. Dega almost flinches at the touch. He looks at him, his tired, bloodshot eyes confused.  
A breeze blows into the room, cold and feeble, but strong enough to carry along the smell of the sea. Blood in the water. The infinite expense of the sea around them. Papillon holding Dega still as he shook like a leaf.  
He’s not shaking now, Dega. He feels delicate, but solid. Anchored. Papillon is filled with the illogical fear that if he lets go of Dega’s wrist he himself will be the one to drift away, be lost forever.  
He doesn’t remember leaning in, but all of a sudden he’s pressing his lips against Dega’s, tentatively pressing his tongue against them. They’re chapped and dry and taste a little bit of blood.   
And, miraculously, Dega kisses him back. He tilts his head, cups Papillon’s cheek with his free hand. By the time they break the kiss, Papillon is clinging so hard to Dega’s wrist he’ll probably leave a bruise.  
"Papi…” Dega murmurs, and something flutters inside Papillon’s chest.


End file.
